Free His Indecent Proposal by Andra Lake Page B

impression was that the office was enormous, much larger than one man needed. Two walls were made entirely of glass, offering city views on both sides. Like the lobby, the room was sparse, decorated with only a wide wooden desk, bar with crystal decanters, white leather couch, and glass coffee table. On its surface sat a rectangular glass vase holding three flowers of red, orange and yellow, providing the only color in the room. Also like the lobby, the atmosphere felt cold.  
    The man behind the desk looked up, smiled at us before standing and buttoning his suit jacket. He was all monotones: black suit, white shirt, silver tie. I felt my eyes widen, unable to look away. He was so… pretty. And somehow intensely masculine at the same time, standing well over six feet tall with dark hair, a chiseled jaw line and piercing blue eyes. I tried not to look shocked at his appearance, though from the smirk on his face as he approached me, he had already taken note.  
    “Mr. King, this is Miss Amy Clair.” Madeline introduced us and then promptly turned on her heel and closed the door, leaving us alone in his office.  
    I made my way over to him on shaky legs.  
    “Hi, Miss Clair,” he smiled warmly, extending his hand. My pulse leapt as he squeezed my hand, his grip tightening. “I’m Mr. King. Such a pleasure to meet you.” He paused, still holding my hand, those striking eyes locked on mine. “I’m so relieved that you look like your picture.”  
    I blushed as he released me, saying an awkward thank you. Who was this man? I estimated him to be thirty at most, and he was a president. A jaw-dropping president at that.  
    “Please, sit.” Mr. King motioned for me to sit on the couch. Instead of sitting beside me, he sat on top of the desk and studied me for a moment before pushing a button on his telephone. “You may go home now, Madeline.”  
    “Good evening, Mr. King,” came the response.  
    Mr. King turned to me again, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. “Have you ever modeled, Miss Clair?”  
    I shook my head, heat rising into my cheeks. I was waiting for him to tell me he was no longer interested, but to my surprise, it seemed to please him.  
    “Good. I’m looking for an amateur. I want a...natural feel.”  
    “What exactly is the modeling position for?” I asked, fiddling with the hem of my skirt.  
    Mr. King noticed the gesture and smiled. “It’s a side project. I’m interested in artistic photography and looking for a very specific look.”  
    He continued to stare at me, and as he did so, his expression…altered. It was like he was looking through me. The effect was instantaneous; I felt it in my stomach, and my nerves fluttered to attention. Suddenly, the air between us felt different. Charged.  
    Mr. King hopped off the desk. “Stand up.”  
    I instantly stood and saw him smile again.  
    “Yes, you are the perfect height. I’d guess about five-foot-two?”  
    I nodded.  
    “You have a petite figure, so there is no doubt you fall within the weight scale provided in the advertisement.”  
    I nodded again, my cheeks heating. It was hard not to find talk of my weight offensive, but I reminded myself that if I wanted to be a model, I was going to have to toughen up. In the modeling industry, models’ statistics were common knowledge. It was how they got opportunities. So, I went a step further.  
    “I think I’m about 105.”  
    Mr. King nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Very good. Very good, indeed.”  
    He continued to smile as if at a private joke, crossed his arms and walked back to the desk, leaned against it. “However, we still need to get to know each other. Like I said, the position requires a certain personality.”  
    A tougher personality, I supposed—one not thrown off by questions about weight.  
     “Do you have any objections to nudity?”  
    Even though I had prepared myself for that question, I still blushed. I took a deep breath and